To Be Loved By The Billionaire

Chapter 3

I woke up to the soft glow of morning sunlight filtering through my curtains, casting a warm hue across my cozy apartment. A memory of last night flashed across my mind, causing me to chuckle into my pillows. I had been to the Met Museum, accompanied by an incredibly attractive man. I knew my face was probably red at the moment. I felt proud of myself for my self control; trying so hard to keep it together amidst persons of high status was a life skill. I still recall two weeks ago when a stranger whom I had seen with sweet Mrs Isabella, had come by to invite me for this event, courtesy of the sweet old lady. I was ecstatic. I knew that accompanying some stranger as a date wasn’t the greatest idea, but I tried not to mind after the reassurance I had gotten from her.

Afterall I was twenty-seven and could handle my own. I had settled into a routine that balanced my passion for art with the practicalities of daily life. My journey as an art curator had begun two years ago, fueled from a deep-seated love for art history, also a desire to preserve and promote cultural heritage. I had cultivated a deep passion for art, nurtured by my artist father who had immersed me in the world of creativity from a young age.

Rolling out of bed, I brewed a strong cup of coffee, relishing the rich aroma that filled my kitchen. “Hmm, nothing like a fresh cup of coffee to start the day,” I said to myself while humming silently.

I glanced at the stack of books on my dining table—volumes on Impressionism, contemporary art, and a biography of Monet- that I hoped to dive into during quiet moments in my day.

I glanced at my clock, I had half an hour to dress up and head out to the Museum. “s**t! I overslept”. I opened my wardrobe, brought out a tailored blouse, high-waisted trousers, and put on. Struggling to put on my shoes, whilst dashing for my espresso in a bid to be quick. I didn’t have time to savor its rich aroma, and took a gulp “ouch!” It burned my tongue. I left the half filled mug, picked up my bag and was out the door. I was seated in a cab as I packed my hair in a ponytail, and applied my lipstick. I stared in the rearview mirror, I looked okay, and sat back.

The driver stared at me through the mirror and said nothing, he was probably used to this sort of mornings from some female clients.

Arriving at the museum, I was greeted by the familiar sights and sounds of one of New York's most iconic cultural institutions. The grand entrance, with its towering columns and intricate stonework, exuded an aura of timeless elegance. The bustling lobby, filled with visitors and staff, added a vibrant energy to the historic setting.

I exchanged greetings with colleagues, my enthusiasm was evident. "Good morning, everyone! Ready to unravel art's mysteries?" I called out as I made my way through the lobby.

Evan, a fellow curator known for his meticulous attention to detail, responded with a smile, "Always, Madeleine. What's the latest acquisition?"

"A 15th century Italian altarpiece. Layers of history waiting for our eyes to decode."

"Interesting, I'll be eager to hear your thoughts on it" he remarked.

My day began with a thorough review of other recent acquisitions and updates to the collection. My keen eyes assessed each piece with a mixture of scholarly scrutiny and personal appreciation. I then proceeded to the conservation labs, where conservators and technicians were already hard at work. The scent of chemicals mixed with the faint aroma of linseed oil filled the air. I observed as conservators meticulously cleaned and repaired delicate Renaissance paintings and sculptures, their concentration evident in their precise movements.

Midday, I was in an animated discussion with the museum's chief conservator, Dr. Phillip, and a team of experts. We were gathered in a conference room, surrounded by reference books and detailed photographs of the fragile panel painting from the early Renaissance.

"We need to stabilize the panel without compromising its structural integrity," Dr. Phillip said, his tone serious. "The painting's condition is more fragile than we initially assessed."

I nodded in agreement. "The technical challenges are significant, but we must also consider the ethical implications of our restoration approach. Preserving the original artist's intent while ensuring the painting's longevity is vital."

The team debated various methods, from advanced stabilization techniques to traditional conservation practices.

Lunchtime offered a welcome break. I was almost done with my salad when my phone buzzed with a call. It was Lydia.

"Hey, Lydia!" I answered cheerfully.

"Hey, Maddie! I hope I'm not interrupting anything," she said, her voice warm and familiar.

"No, not at all, It’s lunchtime you know. What's up?"

"I was hoping to catch up, It feels like ages since we've seen each other. I was thinking, would you be able to swing by my place after work tomorrow? It's been way too long since we last hung out."

I relaxed my shoulders at the thought. "I'd love to. It's been forever."

"I know, right? It's funny how quickly time flies. I really miss our catch-ups."

"Me too," I agreed. "I've been buried in work and haven't had much time to relax.”

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Lydia said with a chuckle. "We can just hang out, catch up, and maybe have a nice dinner. Nothing fancy, just good food and even better conversation."

"Count me in," I responded with a smile. "What time should I come over?"

"How about around 6:30? That gives you enough time to get here after work and for me to finish prepping dinner."

"6:30 works for me. Do you need me to bring anything?"

"Nope, l've got it all covered, Just bring yourself. I have been trying out some new recipes and l would love to hear your thoughts."

"I'm looking forward to it," I said, my voice light with anticipation. "It will be so nice to catch up and unwind. Plus, l've heard you've become quite the chef lately,” I teased.

Lydia laughed. "Oh, stop it! I'm still learning, but I promise not to serve anything too experimental."

"I trust you. And if the food's as good as your company, it will be a great evening."

"Thanks," Lydia said warmly. "So, how's work been? You sound a bit stressed."

"Just the usual," I admitted with a smile. "It's been a hectic week, but I’m loving every bit of it.”

“Typical of you. It will be good to have you over. I’ll see you at 6:30 then.”

“Can't wait!"

"Perfect," Lydia said. "Looking forward to it. “Take care, okay?"

"I will. Thanks for calling, Lydia," I responded sincerely. "See you soon!"

"See you soon!" she replied before she hung up.

I decided to take a quiet stroll through the museum. It was quieter now, the usual buzz of visitors was replaced by a serene stillness that allowed me to appreciate the art without distraction. I was reminded of last night, the moment he stood before that painting. My thoughts drifted to our last moments, his reaction to my question and I cringed. Shaking off the thought. I walked towards my office, my desk was strewn with notebooks, sketchpads, and reference materials, a testament to my dedication. I attempted to tidy it, picked up my bag and left.

A simple dinner of ratatouille, it was a comforting and wholesome dish and was on my menu for today. It was a meal that I often made after a long day. I poured myself a glass of Bordeaux, its rich, velvety notes complementing the meal perfectly. As I savored each bite, my thoughts drifted back to the day's events and the ideas that had sparked my interest.

After dinner, I lit a scented candle, the soft flicker of its flame casting a warm glow in my cozy living room. I settled into my favorite armchair, a well-worn leather seat that had seen many evenings of reflection and relaxation. With a book on modern art theory in hand, I lost myself in its pages, my mind ablaze with ideas for future exhibitions. The text offered fresh perspectives and innovative concepts that intrigued me, fueling my passion for curatorial work.

The evening passed in silence, punctuated only by the turning of pages and the occasional sip of wine. As the night wore on, my eyelids grew heavy. I marked my place in the book and placed it gently on the side table, allowing myself to drift into sleep.

In the soft embrace of sleep, I dreamt of new exhibitions taking shape in the museum, envisioning artists from different eras converging in a grand celebration of artistic expression. I also saw a dark haired boy, with green eyes same shade as mine, holding my hand, trying to get me to accompany him someplace. He looked familiar, I couldn’t recall where I had seen him.